Bad Neighbors
by Merdim
Summary: The story of the fight for Arathi Basin begins here. With two sides devoted to nothing but the others destruction and misery, what will ensue?
1. Introduction

(This is my first bit of fan fiction, so please leave reviews and constructive criticism!)

"Bad Neighbors"

One would have imagined that , in the mid-morning light cast by the rising sun onto the warm, Arathi Highlands plain, that it would have been a peaceful, quiet setting. The long grasses, poking up from the rolling hills of the land, swayed gently with a warm breeze, and the occasional glimpse of a prairie dog or the harmonious chirps of the birds would have lulled one into believing the land was untouched, and virgin from the stains of war and feuding.

The varied races surged and withdrew with each moment of the battle, with arrows and spells raining down and cutting through gaps between warriors and wizards alike. The swords of powerful warriors clashed and cast sparks as they met at the front lines, the eyes of humans, dwarves, and night elves meeting the eyes of their equal orcs, trolls, and even the ranks of the undead. A few massive tauren dotted the Horde's ranks in the fierce mob of fighting men and women, their weapons varying from large sections of trees that had been made into maces to the very earth itself, as the elements were by the large, bestial race, worked against the Alliance.

"For Gnomeregan!" one high-pitched female gnome's voice rang out.

"For the Horde!" came another, deep and booming voice, presumably from a male Tauren.

Other such war-cries carried across the sounds and screams of the fight, and so it went on for hour upon hour, until finally one side gave in.

The few remaining assorted Alliance was all that was left of what had seemed like it would conquer the massive battlefield only hours before. As the bloodied, the minor-wounded, and those who had stood by fresh and ready for this eventuality moved forth, their races distinguishing them as members of the Horde, they walked over the bodies of many. Dwarf, human, orc, troll, and some of all the rest were splayed out in various grotesque fashions throughout the battlefield, some even being found thrown clear of the carnage by attacks more powerful than conception. The once peaceful, green field that had graced the golden, sloping hills of Arathi on that sunny day had been transformed into a battlefield and a graveyard, stained red with blood. Even nature itself seemed to disapprove, dark clouds coming on from the north with promise of a cold rain.


	2. The Fowl Winds of War

Bad Neighbors, Chapter 2

"A Fowl Wind of War"

On the cold, wet, field, stained red with blood and littered with bodies, a collapsible table and Command Center had been established, due to the fact that the Horde army was a ways away from their outpost to the northeast. At the table, standing in his brown and green full spiked-plate armor, was an orc. His face was a bit worn with age, and his skin was a light-acid green. With a long set of black hair running down the middle of his head and down onto part of his back, and with tusks that could easily have been longer than his firm hands, he looked quite menacing as he stood at the table that had been littered with charts and reports over the last hour.

Lieutenant Krhal "Hammer" Lillybloom stood with his hand planted flat on the table, rain already spattering the papers not under his hands from the dark clouds forming above. He had a large, hammer over his broad back and shoulders, giving one the impression of where he might have earned his nickname. Across from him stood his trollish subordinate, Jol'zun Dirtwinder, a scraggly Darkspear with short, upright tusks and a ashy-red mohawk.

"So mon, what jou be plannin' to do?" the tall troll asked, his bow and broad-headed axe slung over his back.

"We're going to fall back and recoup, build up our cavalry support and hopefully be ready to make another push by the time the month ends." Krahl responded, his red eyes scanning the battlefield around him as various trolls, orcs, elves, and tauren dragged the fallen of their side out, also stopping to shackle the Alliance they encountered who appeared to be moving. "Looks like they took it worse than we did this time." he absently stated, an already obvious fact.

"Yah mon, an' I think that was because o' mah-" the troll standing at the other side of the table began, only to be cut off by a yell from an approaching tauren.

"We got their CO!" came the booming yell across the battlefield, causing the more sensitive among the onlookers to cover their ears with expressions of pain.

The orc at the table looked over at his companion, his mouth open slightly as if he had just been about to remark but had been stopped in the process. The troll merely shrugged at him and spoke again. "Mebbe it's tha real one dis time, mon."

The orc nodded curtly at his companion before turning towards the young, brown tauren warrior approaching him with what appeared to be a leash in his huge hands. In a businesslike manner, Lt. Lillybloom straightened out to his commendable 6'7, addressing the private with an expectant frown. "Make your report."

The young tauren hunched a bit, as he was still taller than the Lieutenant at his average 7'5, and nodded once. "We captured the en'my's CO, Sir." The leash remained clutched in his huge, furry hands.

The troll, off to the other side of the table, gave the Private a confused look. "Jou got their command'n officer, on a leash, mon?" He scratched his head with a blue-green, three-fingered hand.

The tauren nodded, wiping sweat off of his hardly-apparent brow with one hand, the other solely managing the leash now. "It was the only way we could control him. The thing's a monster, Sirs!" came his booming voice, carrying traces of a pant.

The orc turned to his companion, a smirk on his face. "Maybe it is the real thing this time.." The troll merely nodded, looking astonished that a tauren would be wearied at this. The leash appeared to be low to the ground. "Could it have been a gnome or dwarf?" both Lieutenants thought to themselves as the leash began to slowly slacken.

Farther back from the command post, along the trail of the leash, and through the bleak fog that had begun to accompany the now-drizzling rain, walked the commanding officer of the Alliance forces that had fought -and lost- that day. Sergeant Cluck walked with his head held high, occasionally giving the orcs or elves that passed a snort of disdain, or a cluck of reprisal -the one he had been named for-. The shackles around his legs hampered his walking, but allowed the Sergeant to take his time and mock each Horde warrior he came across; the casters and archers had already moved on or fallen back to the main camp.

Lieutenant Lillybloom looked over at Lieutenant Dirtwinder, a frown of uncertainty crossing the large orc's features. The troll gave him a shrug, his own features uncertain, but slightly bemused. "'oo knows, mon?"

"Not me, and I don't like that." the well-built orc grumbled before turning back to the young tauren. "Y've done well, Private Moonglazer. Bring their CO to the front and then you're dismissed." The tauren gave a salute before gathering up the leather leash cheerily, jerking along whatever was at the end with a mighty pull.

Whatever the Lieutenants had expected to see that day on the end of the leash was not there. Sergeant Cluck was pulled -more like, thrown- forward with the power of the tauren's arms, coming up almost like a missile and sliding, face-down through the mud, before the Lieutenants and the desk that he had nearly hit.

The orc and troll stared with disbelief, shocked beyond anything they had seen that day. A battle, countless deaths, untold amounts of magic and might, but this small being before them managed to plant an expression of shock clean on their open-mouthed faces.

The thing about Sergeant Cluck that had long amazed and bemused the members of the Alliance was clearly apparent to the two Lieutenants. The small Sergeant stood on two legs, and even wore a military uniform and cap, decorated to signify his position. He had long been a matter of joking amongst the Horde, and even considered by some to be no more than a legend. This too, might've been the reason the officers were so shocked.

The thing about Sergeant Bwak Cluck that had so shocked them, that was so apparent, was that the commander who had ordered the bloody conflict that had taken many lives on both sides that day, was in fact, a chicken.

The tauren was the least surprised of them all, his smile wide and his shoulders relaxed; he'd already forgotten that he'd been dismissed.

The orc turned unexpectedly on the tauren Private, his whole posture and expression screaming rage. "WHAT KIND OF JOKE IS THIS?! THOUGHT YOU'D PUT ONE UP OVER THE OFFICER CORPS, DID YOU, OR ARE YOU JUST DAFT?!"

The tauren wilted backward, although he was still apparently taller than the orc who was yelling at him. "S-sir it's no joke...This i-is their c-c-commanding officer."

Lieutenant Lillybloom sighed, covering his face with his palm. "Dismissed, Private."

"Should I take Sergeant-" the Tauren began.

"NO, LEAVE THE DAMN CHICKEN!" the orc yelled out loud from behind his palm, causing a few passing stretcher-bearers and slave-escorts to look over at him strangely.

The tauren gave a weak, quivering salute and dashed off, his large hooves slopping as he ran through the now-muddy field towards the main camps about a mile back.

Sergeant Cluck gave an almost amused set of rumbling laughs at this, although all the trollish and orcish Lieutenants heard was "Cluck, cluck, cluck."

The orc drew his hand down his face to over his mouth, glaring down at the chicken. "Shut up, stupid chicken. You ruined my day." Sergeant Cluck just stared back, stirring his white feathers as the rain fell on them and letting out a flat, mocking "Bwak."..

The troll, Lieutenant Dirtwinder, looked over at the chicken closely, his set-back eyes scrutinizing the poultry with as much wariness as if he had been facing a human. "I t'ink he knows what we're talkin' 'bout, mon."

The orcish officer across the table from Jol'zun lowered his hand to his side, snorting agitatedly before looking over at his ally. "Shutup, it's just a chicken, and I think after this it'll taste much better for dinner..."

***

Across the field, assembled in a small group, were what had come up from the Alliance outpost about 20 miles back to survey the aftermath of the fight; they didn't like what they'd seen so far. The Horde had won the conflict, and it appeared that they had not only captured some of the still-living soldiers, but even Sergeant Cluck. Master Gunnery Sergeant Johnson Ashmane stood with his team of gnomes and humans on the hill, apart from the two flighty night elves who had been sent to scout.

The human Gunnery Sergeant turned to look at the pair of blue-haired, purple-skinned, leather-clad elves. He scrutinized them with a stern eye, having no real affinity for the kal'dorei as a people. Opening his mouth, the heavily built man started in his classic drawl, sounding Texan -by today's standards-. "Now listen up here, an' you listen good you long-eared leaf-bags. I want the target area scouted out, examined, analyzed, mapped, geographed, an' whatever else you can do with those damn senses. Understand?"

The two night elves, a young male and female, nodded in earnest, almost bouncing around with energy and nervousness. "Y-yessir!" came their collective response, trying to stand at attention to the fierce Gunnery Sergeant while taking orders.

Johnson looked them over once again, his eyes taking a bit longer on the female night elf than her brother at her side. Satisfied, he gave them a smirk with one corner of his rough, lightly-tanned face pulled up. "Dismissed."

The two night elves were gone before he could have even wished them luck, but like he would have done that anyway. The tall human chuckled to himself, removing the heavy, dwarven shotgun from his back and checking it over as he turned and walked behind where he had just been towards the battery that his men had already prepared, entrenched into the hill with sandbags piled around it for stability and cover. The gnomes scurried about the stationary cannon, rooted in the ground on a pivoting and rotating trailer. To the side stood the only other human on the team, watching the gnomes with an idle, slack-jawed look. Ashmane walked up to the human Private's side, his flat-top black-grey hair and beard with moustache and sideburns making him look quite intimidating. Taking advantage of this, the Sergeant stood back, set his feet, and raised his large shotgun to eye level -well, glazed-eye level, with the Private- and held still for a few moments. After assuring himself that Private Brady was oblivious, Ashmane yelled in a booming, echoing voice straight down the side of the gun that his cheek was pressed into the stock of. "HEY BRADY! IS MY BARREL CLEAN!?"

Brady was shocked out of his reverie, spinning around to look down the barrel of the gun and screaming in a girlish voice "NO, SIR!" Before falling flat, as if afraid of being shot by his own commanding officer.

Ashmane simply laughed at him, "Then clean it, dirtbag." before tossing the heavy gun down on Brady's back. "And when you're done with that you can..." On it went, with a despairing Brady looking forward to yet another sleepless night, and Ashmane looking forward to being able to pound the living Light out of the Horde across the way in the morning.


	3. The Rotisserie of All Evil

Bad Neighbors

"The Rotisserie of All Evil"

A new day had come, and the morning was unfittingly beautiful for the chaos that would follow it all up. The sky was a light blue, and the sun cast its first rays over the bloodied fields with a warm, golden aura. One mile west of the battlefield were the Horde field encampments. Tents rose up around in circles, with regiments usually having their own set of tents. One set of tents, near the middle, were different, however. This was probably because they were not 'they' but one, large tent: it was the field command center, essentially a more formal table under a canvas cover. Inside stood Lt. Lillybloom, sitting at his table in a crude, wooden chair. Across the desk from him, tied into a raised chair usually used for infants, was Sergeant Cluck. The orcish Lieutenant had one leg crossed over the other, and one shoulder propped on an elevated knee. He was rubbing his eyes.

The interrogation had been fruitless. Lieutenant Dirtwinder had insisted that the chicken was indeed aware of them, and had pushed his comrade to go through with a 'by the books' questioning. After a moment of silent preparation, in which he had forcibly dispelled all thoughts of just eating the chicken and declaring it a Horde victory, Lt. Lillybloom finally looked at his captive closely. Sergeant Cluck wore a drab-green cloth officer's uniform, custom fitted to his 'peculiar' figure. On top of his white-feathered head was a small soldier's cap, a similar color of green. The chicken's eyes seemed to stare out tauntingly at him, as if the he -Lt. Lillybloom had discovered, at least, that the chicken was male- was daring him to ask another question. The orcish Lieutenant opened his mouth and spoke in a low voice. "Now listen, here, you-eh- Sergeant Cluck. I've a mind to throw you on the burners and eat you for my lunch...This doesn't scare you?" To the orc's surprise, the chicken shook his head, the confident, taunting look intensifying.

"Bwak, bw-cluck coo cluck cluck." The chicken stated, it's beak opening to spew that single, confidence-laced line. Lt. Lillybloom -who was not a gentle orc, by any means of your imagination- gaped at the fowl. Was it actually taunting him? He who could send men flying with a single swing of his great mace, was taking taunts from a CHICKEN?!

This wouldn't do... This couldn't be...It was another joke. It didn't change anything that the chicken was -and the Lieutenant was forced to admit it- a Sergeant of the Alliance.

With a growl, the orc turned his back and left his chair to walk over to a chest that had been placed in the tent. Removing a pair of goggles and metal tongs, he turned around and looked with a menacing grin at the chicken. "How about the deep-fryer?"

Sergeant Cluck's confident air dropped, and one could have seen the poultry gulp in fear. With a distressed tone, the chicken gave another, insolent stream of chicken-speak to the orc, hoping it would buy time for what he hoped would come soon...

***

Across the battlefield, past the bloodiest areas of the field, the Alliance artillery entrenchment waited for information to help them begin their newest assignment from Alliance Command: rescue Sergeant Cluck, who was due to receive promotion to Lieutenant if he survived. Gnomes and the single other human stood in a straight line, their backs rigid as Gunnery Sgt. Johnson Ashmane inspected them. The gnomes were clad in simple cloth adornments that had previously been enchanted to resist heat, and the average-sized human, Private Brady, in the lineup merely wore the leather armor that signified him as assistant to the large, mail-clad man checking them over one at a time as they waited for the night elves to return with intel.

"Now listen up, gnomes and -eh- Private Brady," began the harsh, Texan-ish voice. "The enemy has captured one of our faction's greatest military officers, and it is the duty of the 43rd Artillery Unit to handle the diversion while our mercenary enters to retrieve the Sergeant. The operation is called," Ashmane paused to think something up at random. "Operation Flight to Freedom."

Private Brady yawned, and then opened his mouth to speak in his lazy voice "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted, dirtbag." Ashemane snapped without even looking back, having turned around to think of the name of the operation.

"Chickens are flightless, so shouldn't it be called Run to Freedom...Or Jog to Freedom...Or- Walk To Freedom?" Brady yawned again at the end, expressing his own laziness having tired him.

Gunnery Sgt. Ashmane turned around sharply, a grin on his face. "You're flightless too, Private, but if I put you in the cannon over there," He jerked his thumb towards the cannon. "I'm sure you'd at least get, oh," The Sergeant paused. "About a thousand feet off the ground." With a chuckle, the Sergeant walked on and left a pale-faced Brady standing there trembling, even the mop of brown hair on his head seeming to tremble with fear. He walked up and down the line of assorted gnomes -and Brady- a few times before finally stopping near the middle and addressing them all. "It's called Operation Flight to Freedom because we're using this cannon," He snorted. "to launch our operative over there," He pointed off to a distance behind their entrenchment, where a lone gnome in flight gear sat with a large -or what appeared to be- diver's helmet over his small head. "to get back the Sergeant." Hearing himself mentioned, the gnome turned his head and waved, his face hidden by the green lens in the front of the helmet. Ashmane ignored this, and turned back to facing his men. "If this doesn't work, we will make a full-out charge on the Horde camp, with raised weapons and angry looks on our faces! Brady will probably die, so we can use his ragged corpse for cover if necessary. Any questions?"

"Yeah," came Brady's slightly disgruntled, exasperated voice. "Who IS that?" He pointed towards the gnome over behind them.

"That? Oh, that's the diversion!" Ashmane boomed out gleefully. "The mercenary is already inside the Horde camp. We're just providing a distraction!"

"So wait..." Brady's voice came out again, sounding agitated. "We're going to fire a gnome," Ashmane nodded. "out of a cannon,"

"Absolutely." Ashmane responded quickly.

"and then charge a Horde army, just for a distraction for someone who's already in their camp?" Finished the bewildered Brady, who received yet another nod.

"That's exactly right! The enemy should be so shocked by our decisive attacks and brutality that they will have to negotiate a surrender! Meanwhile, our inside-agent can slip out undetected, and we will have defeated the Horde army! It's the perfect plan!"

"We're all going to die, aren't we?" Brady said flatly.

"Only you, but that's because I'm going to need somewhere to stick this flag!" Ashmane reached into a box of assorted ammo and weapons next to him, and withdrew a large, Alliance banner with the 43rd Artillery Unit's patch and motto around the Alliance symbol. "Your corpse will make the perfect flagstand, and you will have done your race a great service by holding it up with your limp, dead body."

"I hate this war." Brady said flatly, turning around and heading over towards his small bedroll. Sergeant Johnson put the flag back in the box with a chuckle, removing a medium-sized, two-handed mace and tossing it in at Brady's back, the weapon spinning slowly in midair although it moved quickly.

"Forgot your weapon, Private!" came the Sergeant's call just as the heavy mace landed flat over Brady's back, sending the man sprawling forward on the ground. As Brady struggled to get up and take the mace with him, muttering darkly, Ashmane turned to look at the gnomes who remained with a deep chuckle rumbling out from him. "Dismissed, and have a good night cannon fod- I mean, soldiers. Heheh." The gnomes left with various disconcerted looks, wandering about in small groups as they made for their own destinations to wait out the time before the battle.


	4. Lady Luck, Destroyer

**(When you can't be witty, funny, or otherwise cool, go for stupid. This is my first fanfiction, so please leave reviews and constructive criticism!) **

**"Lady Luck, Destroyer..."**

**As Lena sat in the collapsible chair near the fringes of the Horde camp, her feet propped up on the table she had somehow procured when other soldiers couldn't get a blanket, her acid-green eyes were half-lidded, although the light-blond Sin'dorei could easily see the two night elves picking their way from cover to cover, apparently on recon. The fair-skinned elf, her light-blond hair tied into a ponytail behind her head, smirked as she watched the brother and sister, half-pondering whether to kill them, and half-pondering the idea that they might be the signal she'd been expecting from the Alliance. She shrugged to herself idly, her arms crossed over her leather-clad chest. The dark armor she wore suited her needs well: it was workable, it was light -enough- and it provided a measure of stealth and protection. The rogue chuckled to herself, wondering why she was being paid so handsomely for the simple task of getting a chicken from the Horde, and bringing it to the Alliance. "Probably just another game..." she thought to herself, smirking once more at the foolishness of it all. The battle that had happened yesterday was by no means huge; it had only really consisted of about forty members on each side. She'd been hired by the Alliance, shortly after the blood elves joined the Horde, to be an agent of theirs; after years working closely with Silvermoon City's elite, and even some of the government officials, she had passed along a veritable goldmine of information. Feeling that this position might endanger her by both sides, she had joined the military, taken up the bow, and trained as a ranger. She had never really gotten the knack for taming pets, but she had been a deadly shot with bow and rifle alike, and a master of close stealth combat. These traits, combined with her natural charisma and influence, had worked her into a position of grace with most of her commanders. The young Sin'dorei had kept up contact with the Alliance though, the inherent trust placed in her by her superiors giving her a much longer leash for associating with the other races. "A trip to Stormwind, disguised as a high elf? It was all part of some big military plan, sure..." she thought, smiling genuinely at how easy it had been to slip that by. "Yes," she thought, reaching for her rifle that sat tilted against her table, the small muzzle and long barrel indicating it as a precision instrument. "Helping these fools along with their little battles in this Gods-forsaken place has been quite easy so far..." She reached for one of the shells on the table, the thin ordinance waiting obediently, and quietly loaded it into her rifle. Raising the instrument to her shoulder, and resting the forward part of the stock on the tip of one of her dark boots for balance, she leisurely sighted in on the first night elf, the male, who was -to her amusement- crouching by a bush that he thought was safe, his back turned as he gave orders to his teammate, of whom she could only imagine the look of surprise when her companion lie dead before her. Yes, it would be a savory -albeit easy- victory for the blood elven rogue, and she would keep her name good in the books of both sides, because nobody would assume it was her that fired the shot. Such thoughts flitted through the elf's head as she smoothly pulled the bolt back, and then wrapped her hand -almost lovingly- around the stock of the rifle, her gloved finger sliding to the trigger and gently beginning to pull...**

**Two guards standing near the command-tent were bored at the time, idly tossing chit-chat back and forth and leaning on their vicious spears. Both orcs had seen the chicken-Sergeant, 'Sergeant Cluck' or something. Fittingly, many jokes about the "ridiculous Alliance" and their next scheme had been tossed back and forth; by this time, the blood elf was still holding her rifle a ways away, sighting in, and the conversation between the two orcs at the tent had soured a bit.**

**"Who knows, they might even start shooting gnomes out of cannons next!" one guard commented, reaching up to scratch his beard.**

**"That's stupid. Why would they fire gnomes? The gnomes probably built the cannons anyway, so why waste them?" the other guard countered, a bit rudely, tracing out small designs on the dirt with the hilt of his spear**

**The other orc turned his head and sighed, looking out over the various Horde who were going about business as usual; it seemed that the conversation was over.**

**All of the eventualities that might've come about from this moment on were changed by a single act of brash stupidity. Lady Luck, the destroyer of best-laid (or in this case, un-laid) plans, had yet again gotten nosy and stuck her head in on what would have been a perfectly normal (Normal = Stupid. Don't look so surprised.) day in the Arathi Highlands.**

**Not more than a minute later, the blood elf still going on in her own head, and the orc guards still in a sour silence, a loud 'BOOM' erupted from a hill, not very far to the west. All of the Horde who were outside at the time raised their heads, expecting a cloud of smoke and preparing to cheer. What they got instead, was a sound of shrill screaming, and a whistling noise as the helmeted gnome crashed full on into the command tent, causing the whole structure to collapse. As the gnome rose up from the canvas mess, the silhouette of still apparent standing up and expelling loud curses nearby, he was met with the two orc guards. One of them looked at the other, a triumphant smirk on his face. "I guess you owe me an apology."**

**By this time, Lena had seen something that astonished her: charging across the hills towards her, and the rest of the encampment, were a group no larger than seven. She recognized Sergeant Ashmane, running forward and firing his shotgun wildly, and Private Brady, his mace from the previous evening replaced with a short-sword and torch. The gnomes with them she did not recognize, but she could see clearly, having kicked her table over and scrambled behind it. **

**A ways back, Lt. Lillybloom had been extricated from the canvas mess, the gnome prisoner had been chained up, and Sergeant Cluck was nowhere to be found.**

*******

**Brady was sure they would all die. **

**The Horde camp was A) Large, B) Well-protected, and C) Filled with warriors. Brady didn't believe they would last a minute.**

**Ashmane was a bit more optimistic -or insane- running forward towards the front of the camps, the various Horde turning dazedly from their tents and areas to look at the assaulting troops with surprise.**

**The gnomes...Well, the gnomes were scared out of their minds, but they ran forward with daggers and rope, their goal being to slow the enemy down.**

**The unit of seven neared the table that the unidentified blood elf had kicked over, and in a minute, Ashmane had rounded it and pointed his shotgun at Lena -who's mission he didn't know about-. Brady covered the front, the confused Horde milling around, as if unsure whether they should be fighting, laughing, or fleeing. The gnomes gathered around the Private, baring their teeth and letting off high-pitched growls and snarls; they'd taken the liberty of painting their own faces dark with grease, revenge being part of their motivation to overcome fear.**

**Lena looked up at the large shotgun pointed at her face, never having been at a disadvantage like this. Hoping she might get out easy, the elf began to speak frantically in clear common. "Please, I'm with you guys...Secret agent...I'm on your side-" She was cut off as the butt of the shotgun was slammed into the side of her head, knocking the blood elf senseless. Ashmane quickly joined Brady, looking at the numbers of assorted Horde who had begun to come out with weapons in hand, edging nervously towards the small number of Alliance. The Gunnery Sergeant looked over at the Private. "Well, it looks like we have no other choice but to engage them, in brutal hand to hand combat!"**

**Brady sighed and shook his head, glancing at his superior. "Why is it always hand to hand combat?"**

**"Because, it's the honorable way of doing battle, dirtbag." Ashmane responded, reloading his shotgun in a manner of moments and discharging it into the advancing Horde.**

**"That wasn't hand to hand!" Brady announced with distress, tossing his torch towards a barrel of gunpowder, that promptly exploded and sent the nearest orcs and trolls flying. **

**"Neither was that, dirtbag!" Ashmane responded, continuing to lay down fire into the now-retreating Horde group, that was slowly backing up towards the ruins of the command tent. **

**"I think we're beating them!" Brady cried joyously, grabbing Lena's discarded rifle and firing at a glaring orc randomly, hitting him square in the forehead by luck, mostly.**

**Suddenly, the Horde masses stopped, and then collectively turned around. Brady and Ashmane stopped shooting, Ashmane taking the time to reload and Brady moving back to look for ammunition from the unconscious blood elf. With a collective gasp, the Horde army started to stumble backwards, away from the main command tent and towards the gnomes and humans -unconscious blood elves not counted-. Standing before the fierce orcs, the mighty tauren, the vicious trolls, and the evil undead -Blood elves really have no traits that define them as scary or formidable fighters, so they are a given-, was a chicken in drab green army attire, advancing on them with loud, ringing sqwaks and shrees of anger. Behind the chicken, the two orc guards lay flat out over the ground, and lie near them with a dazed look on his face.**

**Needless to say, the might of the Horde army, that had fought the Alliance bitterly for centuries, fled like children towards the hills, and around to get back to their own base that was nearly twenty miles east. Remaining, in the mess of the Horde encampment, were a chicken, two humans, five gnomes, an unconscious blood elf, and three scared orcs. Victory, it seemed, had been achieved.**

**Lady Luck, the destroyer of best laid plans, had indeed intervened today. The small Alliance unit would have surely been slaughtered, had not half of the Horde's forces -their full number being forty in the 'army'- already headed back towards Hammerfall under Lt. Dirtwinder, the troll. If this weren't enough, Sergeant Cluck had already bested Lt. Lillybloom, the fierce orc. Try as he might, the great warrior could not get within ten inches of the chicken without being snapped at, or pecked away. After a time, the orc finally gave in, and had finally turned to discussing the weather with Cluck instead. As for the outcome of this small victory, Lady Luck played a part in that too. Upon recovering Sergeant Cluck, disposing of the remaining Horde in a terrible fashion (They were tarred and feathered.), and securing the questionable blood elf, the group sacked the Alliance camp, and had a party to best the bouts of carousing that dwarves held, much alcohol being imbibed, and many tents being burned.**

**"Victory..." Sergeant Ashmane thought as he threw the keg of gunpowder into a tent with the others, Brady already beginning to strike the match. **

**"It tastes like chicken."**


	5. Dysfunction Junction

**((First Fanfiction, so please leave reviews and criticism! The story is NOT -totally- abandoned.)).... ((YET!))  
**

**"Bad Neighbors"**

**"Dysfunction Junction"**

**Gunnery Sergeant of the Alliance Johnson Ashmane walked spryly throughout the smoldering remains of the Horde camp towards the small set of tents that had been left in fine condition for his men, the small area looking like an oasis in a desert. Deserts aren't usually comprised of burnt tents, furniture, and gunpowder smoke; but hey, they get points for originality. The Sergeant had his shotgun over his shoulder, the wide muzzle rocking back and forth in the air; the whistling that accompanied could only be called happy, and the human had good reason to be: victory. Normally he was considered so inept that people under him didn't respect him, but Brady knew nothing. It was all a big farce, this war over Arathi. Truth be told, most of the forces of both sides had been diverted to fighting the Legion in Outland and the Scourge in Northrend. Ashmane, a swagger in his booted step, was oblivious to all of this, as was everyone else in the whole area. Sergeant Cluck had already left, giving a long -incomprehensible- speech about something or other; what, exactly, nobody knew. The gnomes had salvaged many weapons and a good load of gear from the camp before the initial burning, and now the few remaining tents were surrounded by stacks of weaponry, ammunition, and other supplies. As the Sergeant neared the tents, he spied Private Brady keeping watch over the still-unconscious Blood Elf, her rifle held in the youthful Private's arms. The gnomes scurried about, cleaning swords and axes, shields and spears, and just about anything else that needed cleaning or repair. Ashmane smiled triumphantly, reaching a hand up to scratch his orderly grey beard. Things had gone well, victory had been experienced, but there was still some fun to be had out of this war. **

**"Report, Private Dirtbag." Ashmane snapped as he neared, his happy smile still apparent even with the abusive tone. **

**"Nothin', Sir. She hasn't moved." Brady responded with a shrug, yawning and sitting back in his chair under the edge of the tent, the elf on the hard ground nearby.**

**"Well then, try to get 'er awake, you idler." Ashmane snorted. "I hope the new guy knows how to deal with prisoners-"**

**"New guy-?" **

**"PRISONER?" came the shrill shriek of the bound and disarmed Blood Elf, an angry, groggy expression making her almost harpy-like as she cut across Brady. "I SAID I WAS ON YOUR SIDE!" she screamed with rage, her pale face getting red and her struggles against the ropes holding her becoming more and more violent. Brady fell out of his chair with astonishment, rolling backward and hiding, sprawled out behind the furniture under the shade of the tent. Ashmane just blinked. **

**"But you were over here-" he began.**

**"Whatever! I can speak common, so why shouldn't I be on your side?! I'M THE AGENT." Lena screamed into her captor's faces, squirming. **

**"Oh...I see..." Ashmane responded blankly, scratching his beard and looking at the trembling Brady, who had by now managed to huddle out of vision and away from Lena, cowering in a corner.**

**"YES, YOU SEE. NOW LET ME GO!" she screamed once more, finally loosening her bonds enough to begin worming free. After a few moments of this, Lena stood up in her dark leather armor, her light-blond hair a mess and out of its standard ponytail, with rage clear on her face. Throughout it all, Ashmane watched complacently, looking from Brady to Lena to the scurrying gnomes. **

**After a moment, he commented. "We don't really need you anymore; aren't women supposed to be cooking at the home or something?" A gruff chuckle accompanied this, the Sergeant pulling his shotgun off of his shoulder and placing it over his chest loosely, a challenging grin on his face. **

**"D-d-don't mess with her, Sir! She'll eat you alive..." Brady said in a tortured whisper, trying to shrink into the corner. Ashmane turned to look at him, snorting. **

**"Psh, she's just a little blood elf woman; what could she-?"**

***SLAP* Ashmane reeled, clutching at the side of his face and dropping his shotgun. Lena towered over his prostrate form, a wrathful look on her face. "I'll claw your sexist, human face off, rip out your primate skull, and beat you to death with it, THAT'S WHAT!" With a sharp kick, she left Ashmane on the floor, hunched up and rocking back and forth whimpering.**

**The gnomes, scattered around the untorched earth, snickered to themselves as they watched the woman leave Sergeant Ashmane in pain, and move over to yell incomprehensibly at the cowering form of Brady.**


End file.
